


Kiss Me, I'm an (Irish) Angel

by nerdylittledude



Series: Ugly Sweater !Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdylittledude/pseuds/nerdylittledude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's no secret that Cas is a holiday junkie, but this time Dean doesn't know a damn thing about the holiday. Thankfully, they know someone who does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Me, I'm an (Irish) Angel

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank dotheunstuck over on tumblr ENTIRELY for this fic. Google yields absolutely no results when you try to research an authentic holiday, but she was kind enough to share her family experiences with me. She also encouraged me to make a proper fic of it and not the half-ass thing I originally intended.

“Are we Irish, Dean?”

Castiel and Dean are sitting on the couch of their studio flat, sipping hot tea and playing Uno. If ever asked, Dean would very fervently insist that he drinks only coffee, and never the pansy herbal teas Cas has gotten into recently... but for right now, he can silently concede that tea is awesome. Dean has no idea what flavor this is – he's sure Cas mentioned it, but he wasn't paying attention and he'd never heard of it, anyway – but his taste buds are doing all kinds awesome things and he's glad he didn't object to the steaming teacup when offered. Dean is not sure when they acquired a tea pot, but there's one full of hot water on the coffee table where their cards are.

“Uno. You suck at this game,” Dean says distractedly, placing down a wild card and smirking at the lone card remaining in his hand.

“Dean?”

“Don't be sore because you suck and I'm going to win -”

“Dean.” Castiel's tone is firmer now, attracting Dean's attention. Cas has to use this tone often. Dean is not the best listener. Dean looks up from his card.

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Are we Irish?”

Dean doesn't say anything for a second – he's stuck on Castiel's phrasing of his question. We. Are we Irish? That small, two-letter word gives Dean a weird, fluttery feeling in his stomach. We. As though they are a pair, that whatever Dean is, Cas is. That they are two parts of a set. He knows that Cas didn't think of any of that when he phrased the question, knows this strange feeling is random and without reason, really... but it causes him to pause, nonetheless.

“Hell should I know? Why do you ask? Your turn, by the way. Color is blue. ”

Cas glances at his hand and frowns, plucking a card from the deck. His expression brightens almost invisibly as he places the card, another wild, down.

“The color is now green. And... never mind, you've answered my question.”

Dean frowns at Cas.

“No cryptic bullshit. Why do you ask?”

Castiel looks away. “I was only curious.”

“Angels are sucky liars.”

“Quite.” Castiel is quiet, eyes focused intently anywhere but Dean. Finally, Dean grabs his jaw and tilts his face so that the other man has to look at him. Cas sighs.

“St. Patrick's Day,” he mutters, barely audibly.  
Dean instantly laughs, letting go of Cas' face and ruffling the former-angel's hair affectionately.

“You're like a junkie, man.”

“I don't understand.”

“A junkie – you're addicted to holidays. St. Patrick's Day? Really?”

Castiel shifts awkwardly.

“It's your turn,” he says, indicating the cards on the coffee table. Dean draws a card.

“Cas, nobody celebrates St. Patrick Day unless they're getting shit-faced at an Irish pub. Which we can totally do, if you really want to celebrate.”

Castiel looks visibly disappointed, then... slightly irritated. He tosses a card into the pile, almost spitefully.

“Irish Americans celebrate it, Dean,” he says tightly, “which is why I asked if we're Irish. Obviously we're not.”

“I wonder if they make an AA for holiday addicts,” Dean says, essentially ignoring Cas. Cas glowers.

“I want to make the best of my humanity, Dean.”

Oh. Cas went and used the h word, which always makes Dean all kinds of uncomfortable. That familiar, sinking guilt he's been working on vanquishing settles into his stomach. He can't help but picture what Castiel's wings must have looked like, how he will never get to see them...

“Listen, Cas -”

“I believe you've won, Dean,” Cas says, gesturing to their card game. “I just played a green nine, and you have a blue nine. Congratulations.”

He unceremoniously stands from the couch and walks away. Dean can hear him in the kitchen, taking things out of the cupboards. Baking, Dean muses, and while he's a little upset he can't help but think how endearing it is that his little fallen angel bakes when he's angry. It is several minutes later when Dean realizes that the card he's holding is an upside-down six, not a nine.

He hasn't won anything.

*

Dean comes home later that night with a plastic bag under his arm. Cas is in bed with another cup of tea and a Vonnegut novel, wearing reading glasses, and Dean smiles softly at the sight. They haven't had the chance yet to talk literature, but the fact that they have the same taste in authors makes him feel warm all over – like years and years could pass and they'd still find new things to talk about. It is with renewed courage that he walks over to Cas and sits on the edge of the bed, silent until Cas finally looks up and acknowledges him.  
“Can I help you?”

Dean clears his throat nervously.

“I, uh - I googled, Cas, and I can't find shit. When I look up St. Patrick's Day traditions, I just get the same damn story about the actual dude, St. Patrick.”

“I had the same problem,” Cas says slowly, removing his glasses.

“But, uh,” he reaches into the bag he's holding and pulls out a sweater. It's a St. Patrick's Day one, about as attractive as the collection of awful sweaters Cas has from Christmas (which is to say, not much). It's green and has an interesting design of shamrocks on it. It says “Kiss me, I'm Irish!” because Dean's sure that's about as traditional as he can think of. Cas' eyes instantly light up and Dean is relieved.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says warmly, taking the sweater and pulling it on over the tank top he'd been wearing as pajamas.

“Hey, no problem. I'm, er, sorry we're not Irish.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. Dean thinks it's kinda weird to see a former-angel roll his eyes, but he thinks he likes it, anyway. It's amusing, at least. It's such a human gesture for someone so foreign. Dean looks over Cas in the sweater and a tiny smirk creeps onto his lips when he rereads the words. Cas follows Dean's gaze, looking down at the writing. Then he looks back at Dean.

“You're thinking you should kiss me,” Cas states.

“Yes.”

“If it helps, I'm thinking the same thing.”

So Dean does.

*

Hey, you've reached the Winchesters – or, I guess you haven't since this is our voicemail. Leave your name and number and if we like you, we might call back.

“Hey, Dean – the Winchesters, eh? Did you guys get some secret wedding I wasn't invited to? Anyway – not why I'm calling. I'm calling about Friday. I was wondering if Sarah and I could come stay over you guys' house? I know it's dumb, but Sarah's got a thing about St. Patrick's day. Her family is really, really Irish. Like half-her-family-is-ginger Irish. Who woulda known? Anyway, her parents are going to Ireland for the holiday and she's pretty bummed she can't do a big family thing for it. So I thought we could give it a try? Talk it over and let us know. It'd be great to see you guys again.”

Dean's practically beaming when he hangs up the phone after listening to the voicemail. Cas is in their tiny dining room eating breakfast when Dean tells him the news.

“I've got a certified leprechaun coming to teach us about St. Patty's, Cas,” he says cheerfully, helping himself to a piece of toast from Cas' plate. Cas wrinkles his brow.

“Leprechauns aren't real, Dean,” he says.

“That is so not true. But not my point, either. Sam's fiancee is Irish and they want to come over and celebrate.” Cas drops his spoon in his oatmeal, and a genuine smile creeps across his face. Dean can't help but smile back.

“That's excellent,” Cas remarks.

“Thought you'd say that. Should I call em back, or -”

“You haven't called them back yet? Dean! Call them at once!”

“Love it when you get all bossy,” Dean teases, but doesn't miss the hint of blush that the statement brings about on Cas' face. There's a train of thought Dean almost goes down, but he stops himself and dials Sam's number instead.

“See you in two days, Sammy,” he says cheerfully when Sam answers. He can hear a female cry of fuck yeah! in the background, and he decides yet again that he really, really likes Sarah.

Dean's about to have an actual conversation with Sam when Cas cuts him off abruptly, tossing his jacket at him as he pulls on his own.

“We have to decorate,” he says urgently when Dean raises his eyebrows at him. Dean only laughs.

“Gotta go. Martha Stewart over here just caught some green fever.”

*

Castiel's favorite color is green. He announces this on their way back from shopping, after spending a fair amount of the day picking out various shades of green decorations that compliment each other. Dean thinks idly that Sam and Cas are both secretly women and therefore should hang out more. They'd be excellent girlfriends.

“What's yours?” Cas asks, looking at Dean as he drives. Dean starts to reply that he doesn't know, but he catches sight of Castiel's eyes just as he's opening his mouth, and he changes his mind.

“Blue,” he says decidedly.

Something seems to swell in Cas, and Dean looks away. Sometimes he still has trouble dealing with how much and how often he feels around Cas, the great depth and extent of his feelings. It's most overwhelming when he sees them reciprocated, when he catches small glimpses into the heart of the man he is very much in love with.

They stop at a stoplight and Cas leans over and kisses him. He kisses him again and again until the car behind them starts beeping because the light has changed. They break away, and Dean gets chills by what he sees in Cas' eyes.

*

“I'd believe leprechauns are real faster than I'd believe fairies are real,” Dean argues, wiping flour from his face, “and fairies are real.”

“Dean, I've been stationed on this Earth -”

“Thousands of years, yeah, yeah, I know. And if a leprechaun was real you'd have seen one. Well, I think they're crafty little fuckers, Cas. That's what I think.”

“So crafty they've escaped the attention of angels?”

Dean and Castiel are in the kitchen, and they're covered in flour. Cas more-so than Dean – despite being the regular cook of the two, he seems to have an affinity for making kitchen messes. Every counter is covered with various baking ingredients. They have at least four different types of shamrock cookie cutters.

“Yes. That crafty. You've got flour on your nose.”

“I always do.”

“Last time I tried to kiss it off, it tasted awful. So I'm not doing it again.”

“The gesture was appreciated, regardless.”

“Hey, Cas?”

Cas looks up from the dough he's cutting into a shamrock shape, looks at Dean inquisitively.

“I, uh – I love you, dude. Seriously.” It comes out even more awkward than it did in Dean's head, but Cas just smiles, wipes his hands on his apron (appropriately St. Patrick's Day themed – their collection of aprons is growing at a startling pace) and slips his arms around Dean's waist.

“I don't say it very often,” Dean says sheepishly, now uncomfortable meeting Castiel's eyes. Cas kisses him.

“Neither do I. Do we have to?”

“No,” Dean says slowly, as though this is a fact that has only now occurred to him. “No, we don't.”

“Knowing is enough for me, Dean. I love you, as well.”

Dean wipes the flour from Cas' nose with his thumb, then wipes his thumb clean on Cas' apron. Then, they go back to cutting shapes out of cookie dough.

“I think that was powdered sugar,” Castiel says eventually, as Dean puts the cookie tray into the oven. There's at least a dozen tiny shamrock-shaped sugar cookies on it. Later, they'll ice them with green frosting.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Which means, you could have kissed it off.”

“Nose kisses are awkward anyway, Cas.”

Cas gives a look that is startlingly close to a pout, and Dean is instantly smirking.

“You know, if you wanted a kiss, all you had to do was ask...” With that, he plucks some powdered sugar from its container on the counter and tosses it at Cas. Cas' face is immediately covered in white dust, and his mouth forms a little 'o'. Sugar falls from his eyelashes when he blinks.

“Dean Winchester-”

“Hey, now I have an excuse to-”

And then Cas is cracking an egg over Dean's head, his expression one of smug satisfaction. It's now Dean's turn for his mouth to fall wide open. It's not just because Cas egged him... it's because of how incredibly spontaneous the action was, how unangelic and human and friggin wonderful.

The state of the kitchen quickly falls to shit soon after, as all-out war breaks out. Flour, sugar, eggs and chocolate chips all become viable weapons. If it was a mess before, it is now a landmine, a disaster area. It's so much fun, though, that cleaning up after doesn't even feel daunting. Cas plays some weird Irish music, and Dean surprisingly finds that he doesn't mind much. He might even kinda like it. Dean skates around the kitchen floor in his socks while he sweeps, kicking up plumes of white dust. At one point he starts dancing with the broom, but Cas doesn't like that much – he takes the broom from Dean and dances with him instead.

Hours and hours later than they intended to leave the kitchen, they collapse onto the couch with a tray of their cookies. Cas puts a sheet down first, so their messy clothes don't dirty the couch. The cookies turn out damn delicious. What's even sweeter is how Cas sits snuggled against Dean, his head laid on Dean's shoulder.

“We're covered in food,” he points out after they've finished all the cookies. They hadn't actually planned on eating everything already – the cookies were meant to be around when Sam and Sarah come over... but they can always make more. “I'm going to go take a shower.”

“No-oh,” Dean whines, “I'll fall asleep before you get back.”

“You can't fall asleep covered in food, Dean, you'll attract ants.”

“Well, I'm coming then,” Dean says decidedly. He stands and treks ahead of Cas to the bathroom. Cas follows hesitantly, a peculiar, nervous expression on his face.

“Dean?” he says very, very quietly from the doorway. Dean ignores him and turns on the shower.

“Dean,” Cas repeats, but Dean just pushes open the shower curtain and climbs into the shower with his clothes on. Cas' eyes go wide.

“Dean, what are you doing?” he asks, incredulous. He has this look on his face like he thinks he might have missed some sort of Earth tradition in all his years observing them. He's obviously never seen a man shower fully clothed before.

… Which, of course, makes sense.

Dean just grins and grabs the shampoo, pouring it into his hand as his clothes are steadily soaked. Cas hesitates, but finally peels off his socks and clambers in after Dean. Warm water hits his face and gooey flour starts running off instantly.

Dean grabs a washcloth and helps wash off Cas' face, and he can't help but think this is up there with the weirdest things he's ever done (making rank with ganking the homicidal Puerto Rican clown's pet chupacabra that one time) – showering, fully clothed, with an Angel of the Lord. Or, former angel. Same basic idea. There's nothing remotely sexual about it, either. There's no pretense, it's not leading up to anything. It's just...

Silly. They're being shamelessly silly. Dean hasn't been this silly since Sam was young enough to laugh when he made funny faces at him.

“How are we ever going to get dry, Dean?” Cas asks once they're just about clean and the hot water is just starting to taper off into a much less satisfying lukewarm temperature.

“Uh. Shit. That is a good question.”

They end up stripping down to boxers and undershirts, leaving a sopping pile of dirty clothing in the bathtub. They wrap up with towels and then get a big blanket and cocoon together on the couch. Dean had intended to maybe put a movie in, but Cas feels warm against his body, despite the fact that their underclothes are still damp, and he doesn't want to move. So he doesn't.

Dean's thoughts are starting to travel elsewhere, somewhere he's never even considered letting them trail before. It's hard not to – this is the first time he's been this close to Cas with this little clothing. He tries to push the thoughts out, and his sleepiness assists.

Soon, they both fall asleep.

*

The mid-morning light streaming through the window looks slightly green when filtered through festive green curtains. Dean awakes to this odd, cheery glow with his face in Castiel's hair. He hadn't intended to sleep through the night on the couch with Cas, but the minty shampoo he's currently inhaling smells nice, and he's not complaining. Dean smiles when he realizes Cas probably chose the scent on purpose. Mint and the color green go hand-in-hand, and green goes hand-in-hand with St. Patrick's Day. Dean is quietly pleased with himself for understanding Castiel's rationale.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says when he feels Dean stir, alerting Dean that Cas is already awake.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says quietly. His eyes flicker to the coffee table where the empty try of cookies sits. “We ate them all,” he adds.

“I see,” Cas concedes, “We'll need more for Sam and Sarah. They're coming tonight, St. Patrick's Day is tomorrow.”

“We'll do that today,” Dean agrees, “but later. Right now, I'm pretty comfortable with you right where you are.”

Cas says nothing to this, but Dean can feel him relaxing in his arms. Dean quickly falls asleep again to the sound of Castiel's quiet breathing and the feeling of the other man's chest rising and falling against his own.

*

When they wake again, Cas changes into green pyjama pants covered in shamrocks and an overlarge black Kansas shirt that looks suspiciously like Dean's. Dean follows suit, changing clothes, deciding that a day in pyjamas sounds good to him. He can't get over how much he likes the way Cas looks in his clothes, and has half a mind to tell him. He's not exactly sure why he doesn't.

Cas plays his loud Irish music – which he's informed Dean is a mixed playlist of Dropkick Murpheys and Flogging Molly – and they get to baking again after a late breakfast. Soon, they've replenished their cookie supply and then some. They add green cupcakes to the mix, and Cas has a recipe for “Guiness chocolate cake”, which they try out. Unfortunately, Dean thinks it's funny to add twice the amount of Guiness the recipe calls for, and it turns out awful. Cas pouts until Dean gets a text saying that Sam and Sarah will be bringing their own Guiness chocolate cake, and then he brightens considerably.

Several hours later, Sam and Sarah show up with cake, as promised. Sarah's face lights up when she sees all of Castiel's decorations. Sam's carrying several brown shopping bags, which Dean helps to carry in.

“Hello, Sam, Sarah,” Castiel says, and while his tone is level, Dean can sense his underlying eagerness.

“Hey Cas! The house looks great,” Sarah says, “Just like when I was a kid. It's perfect.” Cas practically beams at this praise, and Dean swells with pride.

“Thank you,” Cas replies warmly.

“We brought some ingredients for Irish soda bread,” Sam says, gesturing to the grocery bags, “we were going to make it at home, but Sarah thought you guys might appreciate being involved, for authenticity's sake.”

Cas nods eagerly, confirming this theory, and Sarah looks like a kid at Christmas.

“Maybe we should leave 'em to it,” Dean suggests, pulling up a chair at the kitchen table. Sam agrees and sits beside Dean. They're quickly immersed in a conversation about the wendigo that Cas and Dean tracked down last week while Sarah and Cas go about preparing the bread. Sarah pulls buttermilk, baking soda, flour, sugar, and butter from the bags and sets them on the kitchen counter. She makes herself at home in their kitchen, pulling out round tins from their cupboards as Cas watches eagerly. Dean and Sam watch the other two all throughout their conversation, both of them with matching expressions of absolute fondness. Dean catches this look on his brother and is pleased. He's happy that this girl makes him so happy. She's getting along well with Cas, too, so Dean figures she's a keeper.

Sarah is tickled pink (or green, as it were) that there's a spare St. Patrick's Day apron for her to use when she and Cas prepare the bread. The consistency of it looks weird from Dean's vantage point, but he figures that's probably the point. He's never had Irish soda bread before, and he's sure neither Sam nor Cas has, either. Finally, they put the bread in the oven.

“Now then,” Sarah says, wiping her hands on her apron before removing it, “time for leprechaun traps.”

The two brothers and their former-angel raise their eyebrows in identical expressions of skepticism, and Sarah laughs. She has a pretty laugh and a smile that lights up her whole face.

“Oh god, humor me. It's tradition, okay? Are we doing this holiday right or what?”

“Alright, alright. We'll humor you,” Sam says right away. Dean mimes a whipping motion, but grins and nods her on.

“The story goes that leprechauns roam about the night before St. Patrick’s Day, and if you can trap one, you can get their gold,” Sarah begins explaining.

“Sounds like a good deal to me,” Dean interjects.

“Right? So let's do it! This was so much fun when I was a kid – and Winchesters are basically a bunch of overgrown kids, so let's have at it.”

They pair off, the Winchester brothers as partners and their respective significant others as partners. Sarah and Cas huddle in the corner of the room secretively, hiding their project from the boys. Dean catches sight of glitter and green construction paper, and declares valiantly to Sam that they're going to defeat their enthusiastic lovers. Sam just chuckles and shakes his head.

At some point, Sarah catches Dean leaving the hallway closet holding a revolver. He's tying string around the trigger.

“Dean!” she chastises him sharply, “we're catching them, not killing them!”

Both Sam and Dean look sheepish. “Old habits die hard,” Sam explains. Dean gives her a cheesy smile and shrugs.

“It's instinct to gank the little f-”

“Dean! They're mischievous, not evil,” Cas chimes in. Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Thought they weren't real?”

“Hypothetically, of course.”

“Right.” Dean puts the revolver back in the closet and goes back to Sam, and they go back to making their trap without lethal weapons. After an hour, both teams are done and ready to unveil their traps.

Cas and Sarah have decorated a small box with green decorations, glitter, and a rainbow made of construction paper. Atop it is a pile of gold chocolate coins. Cas and Sarah demonstrate how, given the slightest pressure, a trapdoor beneath the coins will fall in. They look very pleased with themselves, but Sam and Dean are not impressed.

The brothers' trap is slightly more... aggressive, and much less decorative. It also features a box with a trapdoor, but theirs is much bigger; it goes up just above Sam's knee. The front of the box is cut open so that the box looks almost like a tiny house. There are strings hanging from the “ceiling” of the box, and taped to the strings are little baggies of Lucky Charms. Dean tugs on one of the strings and a pile of VHS tapes falls through the fake ceiling – the tapes were hidden by a second box that was taped over the first box.

Cas and Sarah blink at it several times.

“Where – where did you even find VHS tapes?” Sarah inquires.

“Cas and I had them. He went through this phase where he wanted to go through old technology – he's trying to do the whole human experience firsthand. Weird, right?” Dean flashes Cas an affectionate smile. “So we had them in a box in the closet. I saw them when you made me put the revolver back...”

“This is exactly the kind of thing I used to do when I was a kid – it's awesome, guys. Really original.”

“We figure the crash of the tapes wouldn't kill the little f- er, little darling, but it'd wake us up so we could catch him.”

“So! Do we win?” Sam asks. Sarah and Cas exchange looks, and finally Cas nods subtly. Sarah turns to the boys.

“Yes, I think you do,” she tells them. Dean and Sam respond enthusiastically with high-fives and bro-fists, and Sarah rolls her eyes.

“What's our reward?” Dean demands.

“Awesome Irish food tomorrow,” Sarah says, “Speaking of – our bread should be done, Castiel. Wanna see what you do to it when you take it out?”

Cas follows Sarah into the kitchen, and Dean and Sam follow after a moment later, curious themselves. All three watch as Sarah pulls the tins of bread from the oven and wraps the bread in damp tea towels. It's one of the weirdest things ever Dean's seen as far as baking goes, but he doesn't say so. Sarah promises that it'll taste amazing in the morning.

By this time, it's quite late, and everyone concedes that sleep sounds good. Sarah and Sam change into matching green pyjamas, which Dean instantly teases them about. Cas and Dean are still in theirs from earlier, so they don't need to change. Cas offers his bed to Sam and Sarah, and Dean offers the couch to Cas, insisting he take the floor rather than Cas. There's an awkward moment where they both stare at each other, and Sam and Sarah giggle. Dean glares at them.

“We can share the couch, Dean,” Cas says very quietly, and Dean nods. They crash on the couch very often, but it's only ever when Cas is too tired to get up and go to his own bed. It's sort of an unspoken rule that they don't plan it out. Still, Dean's too tired to object further, so he crawls onto the couch and scoots so that Cas has room. It's dark and quiet in the room for a while before Cas squirms a little closer to Dean, pressing his back to Dean's chest.

A moment later, Dean happily wraps an arm around Cas.

*

Dean wakes up to the feeling of being pinched hard on his arm.

His eyes flicker open and he looks around wildly, surprised to find Cas' face very close to his, smiling in the morning light. He moves his arm away from Cas quickly, sitting up and rubbing it, making a face.

“Ow! What was that for? There are other ways to wake a guy up, y'know.”

“Happy St. Patrick's Day,” Cas says, “You're not wearing green.”

“I just woke up!”

“Everyone else is wearing green.”

“Cheaters,” Dean mutters, still rubbing his arm, but he's quickly distracted by the smell of food coming from the kitchen. Across the room, Sam is waking up as well – it seems that Sarah and Cas woke up before both of them in order to make breakfast. The aroma is tantalizing; Dean can make out the telltale scent of bacon and eggs. He stretches sleepily a moment before letting Cas lead him to the dining room, with Sam trailing behind. There, the table is already set with food.

The soda bread is on the table, wrapped in its tea towels, beside a jar of honey and a dish of butter. There is a serving dish with what looks like pancakes in the form of shamrocks, though they have a strange consistency. There's another plate with bacon, another with eggs, and a dish with sausage and potatoes. Each place set at the table has a glass with green milk in it.

“Holy shit,” Dean says, looking at Cas and then at Sarah, who has just walked in from the kitchen.

“You're welcome,” Sarah says, “and the pancakes are called 'boxty' – they're potato pancakes. Very Irish.”

“It looks amazing, guys,” Sam says, giving Sarah a delicate kiss. Dean's eyes dart to Castiel's mouth instinctively, but he doesn't act on the impulse. It's still kinda weird kissing Cas in front of Sam.

“Happy St. Patrick's Day,” she says, and Dean and Sam echo it before sitting down and digging in. Cas sits close to Dean, and more than once Dean catches Cas staring at him fondly as he eats. It feels awesome and slightly uncomfortable. In a good way.

After their breakfast, everyone piles onto the couch to watch a St. Patrick's Day parade on tv. There isn't one reasonably close to them, unfortunately, and they are otherwise too stuffed to move, anyway. Cas' eyes are trained intently on each passing float on the screen with such scrutiny that Dean silently likens him to a scientist investigating a specimen. This scientist loves his work, though; Dean can almost feel the enthusiasm seeping from his stoic sort-of-boyfriend where their sides touch on the couch. Cas is definitely a holiday junkie.

Hours pass with animated chatter and exchanges of anecdotes, each enjoying one another's time. Before long, Sarah announces it's time to get started making dinner – she and Sam have a long drive and they'd like to be on the road before the sun goes down. She enlists Castiel's help in this endeavor, and the two of them file into the kitchen. Sam watches them go quietly for a moment.

“You seem more different every time I see you, Dean,” Sam remarks in a low voice. In the kitchen, the sound of pots and pans and conversation promises that Cas and Sarah cannot hear them.

“Yeah?” Dean replies awkwardly, keeping his eyes fixed on the television.

“Yeah. You're... I don't know.”

“I'm what?” Dean asks, suddenly defensive.

“In love,” Sam says finally, looking relieved to have found words for it. Dean's mouth falls open and then clamps shut. Sam looks at him curiously, wearing a bemused expression.

“So, what of it?” Dean says at last, crankily. Sam smiles.

“It's just nice, man. That's all. Just really friggin nice.”

Dean doesn't say anything. He likes seeing his little brother happy and it's not something he's used to seeing. He knows a lot of it has to do with Sam's new life with Sarah, with quitting hunting and ending the apocalypse... but he's also learning that it has a lot to do with him, too, and Cas. His relationship with Cas. Sam gets secondhand happiness from knowing that Dean is happy. Dean is just realizing this now, and it's a really good feeling.

“Friggin nice,” Dean repeats, and then nods. “Friggin nice is right.”

*

Cas and Sarah have outdone themselves again, somehow accomplishing a spread that looks even more inviting than breakfast had. ( Dinner Description! ) The little family gathers around the table and they all take their seats, helping themselves to portions of the food laid out. Flogging Molly is playing in the background from the kitchen.

“Hey – before we eat, there should be a toast. Family tradition. Dean, do you want the honors?”

“Uh, sure,” Dean says and stands, holding up his glass, “To St. Patrick's Day?”

“To St. Patrick's Day!” Sarah repeats, confirming that this is an okay choice for a toast, much to Dean's relief. Everyone drinks from their cups. Dean looks at Cas when he sits down, absorbs the little fire in Cas' eyes that is surely burning straight from is heart. Dean wishes every day was a new holiday Cas could learn about, if it always gained this reaction from Cas. Cas looks alive and in love with humanity, and in this small moment Dean doesn't feel guilty at all that Cas isn't an angel anymore. Cas has always loved humans, been enamored of his Father's creations, but only now can he fully appreciate life as one. A little good came from Cas' fall, and Dean seizes it gratefully.

Cas clears his throat and stands, raising his glass as well. The other three fall silent.

“To family,” he adds, and Sam, Sarah and Dean all repeat it firmly, heartily, before drinking to it. Cas looks warmed by their response. Dean takes Cas' hand when he sits down and kisses his knuckles before letting go to eat. Cas examines his hand briefly after that, which amuses Dean to no end.

“We should do this every year,” Sarah says through bites of beef.

“Agreed,” Cas replies readily, and Dean and Sam contribute their assent. They make plans to do it again at Sam's place next year. Cas' eyes are wide while this conversation goes on, as though he's in shock that he's lucky enough to get this again. Dean is inexplicably unhappy with this look on Cas. He wants to tell Cas no, stop looking so surprised when good things happen – but he knows that only time can make that change come about. Hell, he's still working on it himself.

He's getting there, though. And if he can get there, Cas sure as hell can, too. Dean looks forward to approaching that goal. Together. He's pretty sure neither of them can do it alone.

*

The sun is just making its mind to set as Sam and Sarah bid their goodbyes, driving off in Sam's douchey new escalade. Dean made sure he made fun of Sam about the car as often as possible while he stayed over, so he doesn't feel compelled to mention it again as he watches his brother drive off. Cas is practically glowing in his green sweater, eyes bright and lively. He and Dean go inside only after Sam and Sarah are out of sight.

Flogging Molly is still playing unassumingly in the background, its soft volume at odds with its bold sound. Cas' arms are around Dean before he can even finish locking the door, pinning Dean in place so that Cas can look at him with the full intensity of his gaze. And intense doesn't even begin to cover it – there are so many feelings in this look, such a wide range of deep emotion that Dean feels almost trapped. Dean wonders if Cas had to fall to feel these things, or if these feelings are what made him fall. He swallows, hard.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean smirks and rolls his eyes because he has no idea how else to deal with the weight behind Cas' gratitude.

But Cas won't have that. He frowns, grabs Dean's chin and directs him so that he has to look at Cas.

“No – really, Dean. Thank you... for sharing your family. For... everything. For giving me something worth falling for.”

Dean's chest feels tight. He clears his throat.

“You gotta stop thanking me every time there's a holiday,” he says lightly, carefully dancing around all the poignant things Cas has brought to the table. “This one was all Sarah, anyway. The Winchester-style St. Patrick's Day is way less fun.”

Cas looks extremely unsatisfied with this answer, but Dean doesn't know what else to say. Because, what do you say to the guy who saved you from hell, fell from heaven for you, and is now thanking you? So, Dean maintains an easy smile, despite Cas' expression, which is dangerously close to a pout.

“We can still do that, by the way,” Dean says.

Castiel tilts his head to the side. “Do what?”

“Have a Winchester St. Patrick's Day. Because, y'know, for all Sarah's family fun, she missed the biggest part of the holiday.”

“And what is that?”

“Alcohol,” Dean says, smirking, “No one can drink like the Irish, baby.”

“Baby?” Cas echoes, making a face like the word tastes bad in his mouth.

“Yeah! So, what do you say? Wanna get hammered, Irish style? I know this awesome pub in Delaware.”

“Dean, that's at least an hour from here.”

“Worth it, man. Totally worth it. We'll take the speedline, it won't take long.”

Cas frowns, seemingly searching for excuses. Of course, there are a million reasons why an angel shouldn't go get drunk... but Cas seems to be struggling to find any relevance in them now. Dean waits for Cas to reply anxiously, unsure why he suddenly wants this so bad.

“Alright,” Cas says at last, and Dean kisses him.

“Sweet! - but let me get changed. A little green pin isn't gonna keep me from being pinched where we're going.”

*

Dean's shirt brings out his eyes, and Castiel comments on it as they get walk to the speedline. It's, thankfully, around the corner from their house. They're walking hand-in-hand – and it's as awesome as it is awkward. Several houses down, a a conservative Republican neighbor is shamelessly glaring at them. Dean winks at her, stops Cas so he can kiss him demonstratively outside her house. The woman goes inside.

Castiel likes the speedline, for the most part, but seems visibly agitated when they go underground. Dean speculates that it might be an angel thing, not liking to be underground. Dean thinks of birds, how odd they look when they're sometimes trapped in the lower levels of speedline stations. He can't help but put an arm around Cas' shoulders when he thinks about the former-angel's lost wings. He really, really wishes he could see them. Cas looks at him skeptically, but settles into Dean's hold after a while.

It's dark and getting late when they arrive at the classic Irish pub, and the building is crammed with people, all having a great time. Live Irish music is playing loudly from a back corner of the bar, and people are dancing. Dean soaks up the atmosphere, thinking idly of the last time he got drunk with at an Irish pub. He'd picked up a very pretty and very drunk ginger girl, then. He chuckles when he thinks of how much things have changed.

Cas is hovering closer than usual – he is foreign to humanity, and it manifests in social awkwardness. Dean reaches for Cas' hand and squeezes it, then leads him to the bar. Several stools down, a busty girl in a short kilt and a tight green vest is eyeing Dean with hungry eyes. Dean catches Castiel glaring and it makes him feel all funny inside. He kinda likes seeing this side of Cas, this trivial human jealousy. He is very taken aback when Cas kisses him suddenly, with much more passion than either of them is accustomed to. Cas wipes his mouth when they pull apart. Dean raises his eyebrows.

“That was interesting,” Dean remarks. Castiel clears his throat and looks away.

“My apologies.”

“Hey, you don't have to – ”

“We should order drinks, correct?” Cas cuts in, and Dean lets it drop. He wants to tell Cas he can do that as often as he wants, but he doesn't know how to say it. Plus, he's pretty sure that Cas only did it to piss the other girl off. He's not entirely sure angels are into that kind of stuff, otherwise. 

“Hell yes we should. And I gotta say, man, I'm pretty excited to see what your tolerance is without angel mojo.”

A person next to Cas gives them a very confused look and moves a seat down. Dean smiles at him and waves over the bartender.

“Happy St. Patrick's Day!” the bartender says heartily. He is a large man in a kilt, with an appropriately full and ginger beard. He has a thick Irish accent that adds to the authenticity. “What can I get you boys?”

“Surprise us,” Dean says, “something traditional – as long as it gets him drunk.” The bartender returns Dean's grin and nods, turning away to make their drinks. Castiel looks nervous, which Dean finds incredibly endearing.

“We're gonna loosen you up,” Dean says, but this doesn't seem to comfort Cas. If anything, it seems to make him even more anxious. Dean realizes that Cas may never have actually been loose before. Dean, for sure, can't think of a single time Cas was even the slightest bit uninhibited. He's extremely excited, and tips their bartender well when he returns with their drinks. He has two pint glasses filled with Guiness beer and two shot glasses filled with something unrecognizable.

“Irish car bombs,” the man explains when both Dean and Cas look at him quizzically.

“What? A drink I've never had? I guess there's a first time for everything.”

“You split a can of Guiness,” the man explains, “ - you two seemed like the splittin' type – and drop the shot glass into the pint. Don't look at me funny, boys, it's got hard tack an' cream innit. Then you gotta chug it before the cream can curdle. They'll get you mighty shlossed in a quick minute. Taste like chocolate.”

“Chocolate. Right,” Dean says, raising an eyebrow. But he shrugs and raises his shotglass and motions for Cas to do the same. After a moment's hesitation, Cas complies.

“To us!” Dean says, and drops the shot glass in the pint. Cas does the same, and they quickly chug down their drinks. Both of them wear matching expressions of surprise and delight.

“Those are awesome,” Dean says, and Cas nods vigorously. Dean is beyond pleased with Cas' reaction, and he quickly orders two more, and then two more. It's soon obvious that the alcohol is affecting Cas – he has next to no tolerance without his angelic homeostasis backing him up.

“Wanna dance?” Dean asks. Dean's still mostly sober, but he feel feel a buzz starting and it's enough to get him on his feet. To his shock, Castiel complies without coercion, and readily follows Dean to the where the musicians are playing. Several people are dancing in traditional Irish style with varying degrees of talent. The dance requires a lot of moving around, and it's fun and upbeat. Dean and Cas can't keep up with the complicated foot movements, but they join in anyway, locking arms and spinning around and otherwise making fools of themselves. They're not the only awful dancers there – there are plenty of people who are drunk witless – so they fit right in. To Dean's surprise, Cas laughs the whole while, grin uncharacteristically wide.

The night passes with alternating dancing and drinks, until even Dean is drunk, and Cas is so far gone that he tries to get Dean to dance on a table with him. He's sitting on the table, about to stand up, tugging Dean close by his forearms, while lively Irish music plays busily in the background. Dean almost complies, but he's pretty sure they're so inebriated they'll end up injuring themselves. He clings to the tiniest bit of common sense his intoxicated mind can muster up and refrains, instead pulling Cas close into a deep kiss to distract him from his whim. He ventures for tongue and someone nearby whistles, and then two more whistles follow. Cas melts into the kiss, throwing his arms around Dean's neck and responding enthusiastically. This is incredibly new. They've never done this before, and certainly not in public.

Then Cas remembers why he's sitting on the table and abruptly breaks the kiss and stands up, wobbly, offering a hand to Dean. The table is long and fairly wide, and Dean figures Cas has a better chance of not falling if he's up there with him, so he finally relents and joins Cas. They link arms and spin around until they nearly fall and Dean puts his arms around Cas and draws him close in an effort to slow their pace. Cas kisses him again, and this time several people cheer.

They stay until the pub closes, waving excitedly to everyone as they leave, shaking hands here and there.

“The Irrsh are awesmm!” Dean slurs happily as they walk to the speedline, arms linked as they go. Cas just laughs and nods in agreement. They luck out and catch the last running train of the night and spend the ride huddled up together in a seat in the back, Cas nuzzling into Dean's neck affectionately as Dean presses kisses he's only half-conscious of into Cas' hair. After the first half hour, Cas tilts his head and kisses Dean again, with the same passion as before. Tonight is the first time they've ever really made out, and they spend the ride making up for lost time.

They almost miss their stop because they're so distracted and out of it, and Castiel's trench coat nearly gets caught in the doors as the speedline departs. They laugh way too hard over this, and walk with shaky feet home. At some point they stop and dance in the vacant street, trying in vain to replicate the fancy Irish dance steps they sort-of learned tonight. They move on when they almost fall, and finally make it home.

As soon as they're inside, Cas shoves Dean against the door, clutching Dean's jacket with both hands. Dean is reminded of the time in the alley when Cas beat the living shit out of him, and his heart thunders in his chest. This time, though, Cas presses their bodies together and then their mouths, his kisses more fervent and aggressive than the lazy, sloppy kisses on the train. Dean responds eagerly, letting alcohol work on his behalf, helping him act on all the latent desires he's been suppressing. The same seems to be true of Cas, who is pulling off his shirt and then quickly tugging at Dean's.

They make it to the couch in a tangle of limbs, entwined as tightly as possible once they lay down. Dean's breathing is coming short and shallow now, and he notices with a jolt that Castiel's is, as well.

“Baby, you're so hot,” he babbles, vaguely aware that he sounds ridiculous.

“Not a baby, Dean,” Cas interjects between kisses, pausing only long enough to speak, “I'm thousands of years old.” His hands trace Dean's thighs over denim, come to rest at the hem of his jeans. Dean stops short.

“Holy shit,” he says, stopping Castiel's hands with his own. “Cas – Dude, Cas.”

“What?” Cas looks annoyed and smacks Dean's hands away. Dean immediately regains his grip.

“Cas, you're – you're a virgin, like a thousand year old virgin, you can't just...” Dean wishes liquor wasn't making it so hard to think and talk.

Cas makes a sound somewhat like a growl. “You don't want me, then?” He mouths at Dean's neck, then his ear, as though trying to prove a point, and Dean stifles a mewl.

“No! I do, I do, Cas – no, you don't get it,” Dean's wondering at what point he got this drunk, and curses the last three car bombs, “it has to be... special, damnit. 'Cause you're... special. It can't be some drunken thing we won't remember.”

Cas stops at this, seems to be thinking it over. He sighs, forces himself up on his forearms so that he can look at Dean properly.

“Very well,” he says quietly, “but it will happen.”

“Hell yes,” Dean agrees readily.

“Will you... sleep, with me? In my bed?” Castiel asks hesitantly, eyes darting to the bed they've never shared before. They've crashed on the couch haphazardly in the past, but it's never been a planned, agreed upon thing. There's something that seems almost formal about this. Like it's the start of something. Dean catches his breath, and then nods. He plants a kiss to Cas' nose and smiles.

They make the transition from bed to couch and cuddle up under the blankets. Dean is the little spoon, for once, and he finds that he doesn't mind as much as he would have expected. He feels safe in more ways than one.

“I love you, Dean,” Cas whispers sleepily.

“I love you too, Cas.”

“I like being Irish with you,” he adds as he starts to drift off. It's a drunken sentiment, but Dean understands.

“I like being Irish with you, too, Cas. I really friggin do.”


End file.
